


Delivery

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-02
Updated: 2010-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's having a bad day, he orders pizza, things get better. (5.22 coda; not s6 compliant.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> Written mostly for Prompt 3 (Dean wears Sam's hoodie), but a bit for Prompt 1 (Hugs/Cuddling) at a h/c challenge at hoodie_time.

When he and Lisa had agreed it was better to part ways and he had drifted back into hunting, Dean had meant to drift back into drinking, too. After all, no more need to remember that there was a kid in the house. His first week on the road out from Cicero he went through a bottle a night, knocking the liquor back grimly until he couldn’t see the garish decor of the motel rooms or hear Sam’s voice making fun of it. Or Sam’s voice being its pain-in-the-ass self, insisting he’d had enough. Sam wasn’t there. He didn’t get a vote.

There were other votes, though. The night Dean’s shot went wild and the werewolf had time to take down some poor, terrified, business-suited sod before Dean’s hands were steady enough to aim again he’d puked behind a dumpster and gone back to the motel room and emptied the Jack Daniels down the sink before puking again. He might have no compelling reason to live, but he wasn’t entitled to take anyone else down with him.

So he went on. Saving people, hunting things. Not a family business any more. Just Dean, not knowing what else to do with his sorry life.

  
Most nights he still wishes he could crawl back into a bottle. Right now, washed up at the Super 8 in scenic Meridian, Mississippi, he’d be content to skip the alcohol and take a blow to the head. He’d bruised his face up nicely and cracked two ribs against a tombstone during last night’s salt and burn, and wrapping them himself had been a bitch. Painkillers have taken the edge off and pizza is on its way, but he needs _something_ to get him through another evening of nagging discomfort and meaningless reruns and a pristine second bed.

There’s a liquor store just down the road.

In the end he walks past the driver’s door of the Impala and opens the trunk. Between the guns and the knives is the duffel he never carries into motel rooms any more. He unzips it, bending with a grunt of pain to catch the almost-faded scent of Sam, and digs around until he finds one of those freakishly oversized hoodies. This shitty motel’s stupid AC is stuck on arctic; he just needs another layer. Anyway, not like there’s anyone here to see him. He pulls on the hoodie on his way back into the room, wincing again as he wrestles his arms into the too long sleeves. Fucking sasquatch.

He turns on the TV and piles up the pillows from both beds and sticks his hand in the hoodie’s pocket. It brushes against a crumpled piece of paper and he fishes it out, smoothing it carefully on the bedside table. Just some quick note from Hell. Wish you were here. He’s not going to read it.

  
He’s reading it for the third time when someone knocks. Crap. Now some pizza guy is going to catch Dean Winchester in a tent-sized hoodie, sobbing his eyes out over a gas station receipt with “Doritos, ammo, sage, aspirin, laundry detergent, gauze” on the back in Sam’s stupid illegible handwriting.

It’s a remarkably tall pizza delivery guy. A remarkably tall, out-of-uniform pizza delivery guy. A remarkably tall, out-of-uniform pizza delivery guy with no pizza.

Dean can’t see, what with his face being crushed on not-the-pizza-delivery-guy’s shoulder. And he can’t breathe, what with his cracked ribs and not-the-pizza-delivery-guy’s boa constrictor hug working on breaking a few more of them. He manages to wrench back enough to look up and drag in a breath and wheeze “Sam,” and “ribs,” and “Christo.”

Seems the second part is the only bit Sam – no, not Sam, it can’t be Sam – catches, because he frowns and unwraps his arms and pushes Dean back into the motel room and sits him on the bed so he can loom over him pissily.

“Can’t I be gone a few months without you getting yourself all banged up?” can’t-be-Sam demands, thumbing the bruises under Dean’s eye and definitely not noticing any traces of girly, plausibly deniable tears. Then he’s kneeling and working on the hoodie and shirts to get at Dean’s ribs.

“Silver,” croaks Dean, since he seems to be reduced to nouns, “holy water.”

“In a minute, Dean,” says can’t-be-Sam absently, “I’ll down as much holy water and cut myself on as many letter openers as you want, as soon as I look at these ribs.”

There doesn’t seem much point in resisting the shapeshifter or Lucifer or revenant or what-have-you. Whatever it is, it’s bossy. Dean lets his eyes close while Sam’s big hands poke gently at his ribs and then begin pulling the hoodie over his head. “I’m going to rewrap those for you,” says Sam’s voice, muffled by cloth, and then the hands stop while Dean’s head and left arm are still tangled in the fabric and Sam – no shapeshifter could duplicate that yelp of righteous outrage – says, “Hey, this is _mine_.”

No silver or holy water needed. Definitely Sam. 


End file.
